


A Not-So-Jolly Encounter

by Hobbitrocious



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Drugged Thorin, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Gift Work, Interspecies, Light Bondage, M/M, Mirkwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3771367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Hobbitrocious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caught off his guard, Thorin narrowly escapes what might almost have been the beginning of the end. Still, the pale Orc will chase his vengeful dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Not-So-Jolly Encounter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TactheJoker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TactheJoker/gifts).



> Written for [TactheJoker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TactheJoker/pseuds/TactheJoker) as a gift for the 2013 holidays.
> 
> I tried uploading this fic in its primary form, a huge JPEG of the painstakingly handwritten hard copy, but apparently the file was too large to display correctly here. So text it is. If you want to view the original, go to <http://babywolverine.deviantart.com/art/Azog-x-Thorin-for-ShockwaveCG-426059843> and click the image to see it fullsized.
> 
> Praise and thanks be to Abba YHWH, who allows me to express myself through this writing and in so many other ways!

Spider venom whispered through strong veins, trickling into Thorin's mind. 

It took some long, groggy minutes after he woke to realise he had been asleep - asleep if not done in by the spider jab - for how long, he could not tell.

His vision still too blurred to make out more than what was light and what was dark, Thorin chanced movement; the air was blessedly clear after the muggy, suffocating closeness within the forest, and he sucked in air like a bellows, audibly without care of being heard. His arms flailed out to one side to find purchase.

He was still on leaf-strewn ground, moss abundant, but as his eyes adjusted he could make out more sky than branches. The sticky webs he last recalled winding around his body were gone. He was safe. The others, he hoped, were safe. He rubbed at his eyes and tried to look about for the rest of the company.

A footfall crunched in the leaves just behind him. Before he could brace himself, Thorin went flat on his back again, pinned hard by a roughly made boot.

 

"How I have dreamt of a moment as this," rumbled a voice whose accent was obviously not accustomed to the speaking of Westron.

Thorin shoved at the boot with all his might, but all his might wasn't much. Spider jabs from spiders the size of those in the Mirkwood weren't easily shaken off, Thorin considered with a shiver of fright. It would be a while before he could do anything in the way of fending anyone off on his own. What little strength he retained spent, muscles burning, he dropped his arms with an anguished cry.

"... The last heir of Thror's house, defenseless at my feet, " Azog purred.

Thorin craned his neck, searching in vain for a friend or a weapon within reach. He arched his back as far as he could manage and caught sight of the treeline, and all of Azog's hand-picked riding pack lined silently along it to watch. Thorin gasped, a ragged sound that betrayed his exhaustion.

Azog's boot pressed sharply into his collarbone, recapturing his attention.

"... squirming like a gorge-worm for his final few breaths."

In the blink of an eye, Azog's foot shifted to the dwarf's windpipe. 

Thorin thumped at Azog's leg with renewed panic, struggling to remain in hard-won consciousness as his breath grew dangerously shallow.

The pressure increased for an unbearable instant as the hulking orc twisted toward his troops, calling out, "keep a watch on all perimeters!" Then Azog stepped back.

The controlled clamour of a dozen scouts and half as many wargs efficiently changing ground barely registered in their leader's ears; Azog's full attention was quickly on Thorin and the pleasingly wracking coughs he could not contain until his lungs found their rhythm and his bruised throat relaxed. 

Thorin slumped when the fit passed, not an ounce of fight left in him. He lifted one hand in attempt to scrape the mud from his beard, but fell short. Above him, the scarred monstrosity laughed.

"Now, Thorin Oakenshield," said Azog in a softer way meant just for him, "shall we finish what we started in the Dimrill?"

Thorin flinched as Azog's mace swung in ever so slowly and rubbed along his jaw; a cold, scraping mockery of a caress.

Regarding his prey with keen interest, Azog sauntered closer, keeping expert control over the balance of the mace. All the same, Thorin found himself holding his breath until the lethally heavy thing drifted out of sight. Azog gave Thorin one smart but gentle tap to the cheek, to turn his head, before he knelt by the dwarf's side and set his weapon well out of reach.

The orc's age showed, just enough, in the exertion with which he knelt in the first place. His laboured grunts reminded Thorin of the more wizened men encountered in some of the places he'd lived. Stiff though an older orc might have been, however, Azog wasn't too likely to pass of old age just yet. Not unless helped along by copious force.

Alas, were Thorin still in possession of his axe, he could not have lifted it.

Nor could he pull away from Azog's wooden claw touched to his chin. 

Forced to meet Azog's gaze, Thorin stared back as calmly as he could. This was surely about to be his end; it was just as well to face it with dignity. There was nothing else he could do.

But it would not be a swift end if Azog had his way. This moment was too long in coming not to draw it out to the fullest. Azog lifted his good hand and beckoned to the few orcs lingering near.

"Rakush," he said, smirking down at Oakenshield, "in the smallest bag in the provisions I have a set of irons. Bring them, that I may see the scum wear them." 

The other orc leapt to obey.

Azog chuckled. "See," he murmured to Thorin, stroking, unnerving gentle, through Thorin's whiskers with that wretched claw, "see how they scamper at my command. I would have you do the same. Not..." a wheeze, "not in the way my packs do, but once it is you and I, when I have the time to enjoy the... _comforts of home_."

The pale orc cracked a salacious smile. 

Thorin gave a brief splutter under the viscous string of drool that trailed down his nose from Azog's teeth.

Drawing his claw back to lean on, Azog touched Thorin for the first time. His chalky, white forefinger, thick and meaty, tapped at Thorin's forehead.

"Could I break you, Thorin Oakenshield, do you think?" Another low, rumbling chuckle.

Azog's finger traced down Thorin's face - between his eyes, over the noble bridge of his nose to his trembling upper lip - and stopped at his mouth.

"You do not need to answer," Azog assured. "I will break you in time."

He rubbed at the dwarf's lips, Thorin too drained and despairing to think to turn from the finger though it tasted of the dirt of many long roads and the filth of a warg's fur.

Crushed with a sudden sense of dread, Thorin moaned loud and long. Had he the wit left to realise it, he might have felt the power of the spider venom dragging him under again. He tried to toss his head, to shake off the consuming darkness, but in effect did nothing more than wipe his own lips into Azog's finger.

If it was possible, Azog looked infinitely more pleased than before.

"This is a good start," The Defiler commented.

A jangle and a clinking were the only warning Thorin had before he was partially lifted by only his hair and a cruel but well-oiled iron band clamped around his neck. A lock snapped shut with a heavy noise of finality, and Azog let Thorin's head fall.

"This will not come off your neck, my pet," promised Azog, "until I am ready to sever it."

Twistedly delighted snarling, gnashing, and lip-licking could be heard around.

Thorin's vision twinkled in and out, his blood rushed in is ears. This was his doom, whatever ugly process Azog had planned for him while he stewed since their last meeting.

The Defiler in mention, in unhurried, hulking movements, retrieved his mace and stood. He turned to the nearest orc.

" _Fit him with the rest of the chains_ ," he ordered in their own tongue.

A grunt in the affirmative, and then Thorin felt a rough, misshapen hand around one of his wrists. Helpless, he closed his eyes and waited for the venom-sleep to take him again. He made a silent wish, that Gandalf find the others and finish what was begun, with or without coming back for his key. The hope was lost that Thorin should return to Durin's halls himself.

He lied completely still while the orc shackled him, a chain running from his neck, through manacles, to the leg irons that completed his bonds. He felt, more than heard, a triumphant growl reverberate in Azog's chest as the beast stepped in and dragged his limp dwarf captive up by his chain. Thorin's head lolled. He made no move to stand on his own, and Azog began to put him down in order to adjust his grip.

It was then that a familiar sound sliced through the air, and through Thorin's awareness.

The arrow zipped by out of nowhere, the fletching missing Azog's shoulder by a hair's breadth before an underling behind him yowled in pain.

Azog ducked another arrow unmistakably intended for him and, expressing his utter frustration with one long, horrible snarl, dropped his prize. 

The trusty white warg nudged at Azog's hip, and he mounted. Revenge grudgingly left for another day, he called for retreat. Whether the dwarves reached Erebor was ultimately of little consequence, but Azog knew the value he held himself in his master's plans. No matter how he wished to end Oakenshield, even if it proved the last thing he did, Thorin's dripping neck the last Azog ever saw... today, it was not for him to decide. 

He would wait, and the wait would be worth it. Oakenshield thus far proved too reckless for his own good; there would undoubtedly be another opportunity between here and the Lake for Azog to reclaim his prisoner. He spurred his warg to the head of the retreat, mind churning with anger and frustration; with dark, hateful desire.

Contrary to what Thorin believed possible a minute ago, he was free. He looked on, not daring to move, as the orcs fled. Arrows followed their path from the trees until their wargs carried them out of range. Those orcs on foot were picked off to the last one.

At great effort, Thorin sat up and peered along the treeline after the shots subsided, stunned to see the shadows morph into humanlike forms. They saw him and approached.

Elves. Never in his life did Thorin think he'd be so grateful to see elves.


End file.
